August

it is older than you or I
it lies dormant in our fragile bodies
And when it grows
it roots in our ribcage
twirling vines around our lungs
and flowering through our collarbones

‘sweet agony’,
i’ve heard it called
each of your ancestors knows it
as do you
it calls to you, as sweet as summer

sunrays shine through the cracks
of your broken body
and fill up your soul

but the joy makes no difference
in the ruin of your heart